70 (New Year's)

In spring, sorrow looks through my socket skull

and starlings titter in my deaf ear holes,

and the marsh is most swampy in the bone,

and I feel the sky in a far-off star,

and I taste the black bottom of my jaw.

In summer, I am falling, and digging,

where the ground is soft and the green grass grows,

too grave, from the septic tank to the springhouse.

In autumn, I ride shotgun in the car,

and when I arrive in winter, I saw 

through the white sawhorses, burn your sweet home,

and hunt you down while you search for the road.

This year, this year, I resolve to be hell.

orifinally published in Electric Literature (read by avatar)

print published by Otter Magazine